Pleasing Miss Potter
by an alcoholic
Summary: Come one, come all, to see fem!Harry become the object of many a man's (and creature's) lust.
1. Remus Lupin

**Pairing**: Onesided Remus Lupin/Harry  
**Timeline**: _Prisoner of Azkaban_  
**Warnings**: soloF

* * *

_"Chocolate, Harry?"_

It was empty in the first-floor girls' lavatory, except for the familiar gurgles of Moaning Myrtle doing rounds through the plumbing. When Harry first arrived, Myrtle had subjected her to a brief inquisition. "What are you doing here so late? Shall I notify a professor about naught Gryffindors loitering in the toilets?"

"It's none of your bloody business," Harry said, shutting the stall with a prudent _snick_.

She pressed her back against the wall, the stone chilling the back of her neck. Her glasses slid down the bridge of her nose as her head bowed forward. Very carefully she dipped a hand in the front of her skirt, and slid it past her knickers.

Her head still swam thick and stupid with memorized images and scents and sounds, like the way the incense in Trelawney's tower made her feel. Dopey and unfocused, as if everything were a blur and she was wrapped up in it.

It was surprisingly easier to lose herself there in the drafty, cold stall than up in the dormitories where Lavender and Parvati's giggling and Hermione's endlessly scratching quill had the maddening effect of draining her of desire; fear of discovery, as well, she supposed. Here she only had to contend with Myrtle's wails and odd, ritualistic weaving in and out of the toilets. And if Myrtle discovered her, well, she'd just learned a handy hex for that.

She was thinking of the train and the scene with the Dementors (not at length) and the way food tasted better when it was given in... concern, she decided. The fantasy-chocolate melted on her tongue along with a keening noise that would surely attract the attention of Mrs. Norris, perhaps if she were in the immediate vicinity.

Harry washed her hand quickly and mopped the sweat off her face. Her hair was very heavy and damp at her nape. She ignored Myrtle's hair-tearing as she pulled the invisibility cloak over herself, heart beating rapidly as Filch's moldy shoes stole down the corridor ahead. It wasn't until she drew the bed curtain back and Lavender's snores reached a plateau of a certain volume did she quite calm down.

* * *

Maybe it was because he was the first adult to ever make her feel comfortable, took a personal interest in her. Besides Hagrid and Dumbledore, she supposed. But this was... _different_. She didn't feel her stomach clench so tightly when Hagrid offered her rock cakes and a bucket of tea; her face didn't feel so hot and her body so paralyzed with uncertainty when Dumbedore offered her a lemon drop.

She only felt so idiotic and childish when Professor Lupin gave that ever-so-slight smile during a lesson and felt like her heart was going to beat outside her chest, as if in a cartoon.

Now she knew what Hermione meant about Lockhart last year, self-absorbed git as he was.

But Professor Lupin was different.

* * *

A grindylow glowered at the class from its tank, its webbed hands scratching at the glass. Professor Lupin stood next to it, talking.

Harry wasn't listening.

Rather the was rubbing her thighs together under the desk, a new sport she'd invented (or heard about, actually) one day not too long ago in this very classroom. After doing it a couple times without any visible consequences, she'd sort of accidentally made a habit of it; each time she heard his voice or focused on one little detail of his face, everything became white noise and her mind went from learning about grindlows to coming in the most minialistic way possible.

They weren't very powerful, anyway, her little deaths; just a spasm that twisted through her ankles and made her grip her quill tighter than usual. But imperceptible if you very well weren't bleeding looking for it.

Sometimes she did it the whole lesson through. Three, four times. She found it disconcertingly easy to slip out of focus and daydream about his kisses, his smell, beind offered a piece of chocolate on a dark train with no one else in sight.

When she hovered over the text of her book, the letters huge and blurry, her mouth hanging open slightly, a rap on her desk brough her back to stark attention, her spine righting itself like a rod.

Lupin's face materialized in to view. Her cheeks stung with heat. "Don't fall asleep on me now, Harry. Grindylows can't be that boring."

"N-no, sir."

* * *

If Hermione thought something was amiss, she didn't say - rather unlike her, Harry thought, though it wasn't like she wanted to be interrupted from her hobby... mostly. At least not by Hermione. Her drawn face greeted Harry's at breakfast.

"I'm fine" was their moody response to each other's innocent question of how are you.

Harry was kind of glad there Hermione had problems of her own to distract her - she was the only one who bothered to pay any attention.

_Ron_, she thought idly as he tried to jam a piece of toast into his mouth at once. Ron was not an issue.

* * *

After a rather sad attempt at finishing her mind-numbingly long Potions essay, she left it abandoned in the common room for more fruitful pursuits. Those involving invisibility cloaks and beautiful, holistic relief from this maddening bubble inside her that felt like it was going to burst at any given moment.

She got to the toilets and managed to bypass Myrtle, who had taken to flushing the toilets all at once, as if trying to drive Harry or her thoughts away.

She set to work. It was almost mechanical now, the way she slid her knickers down and rubbed _it_ in slow, leisurely rounds. (She learned quickly that rushing it led to her being sore, and thus being more obvious. Something something, Slytherin subtlety.)

She was almost there when – wonder of wonders – Myrtle burst through the stall's toilet, causing toilet water to explode all over Harry and the cloak hanging on the stall's hook. Myrtle had a nasty grin on her spotty, plasmic face.

"Ickle Potter getting her jollies off in the girls' lavatory, hmm? I suppose it shouldn't be surprising," she sighed.

"Sod off, Myrtle," Harry hissed. It was hard to perform it front of ghosts. She twisted a strand of wet hair, and glared down as Myrtle floated toward the ceiling.

"There's a professor out there," she said almost dreamily, "supposing you need any help."

"I _don't_... So why don't you just _piss_ _off_..."

Myrtle began moaning loudly as ever, as if someone were wrenching a sword through her gut (if she had one). "_There's a horrible man in the girls' lavatory! I think it might be Sirius Black!_" she cried.

Harry's blood went cold.

"Myrtle... stop... " she pleaded.

Myrtle kept on.

She jerked up her knickers and righted her skirt, and threw the cloak over herself. It was about the moment she pushed the stall open that she heard footsteps from the corridor gaining volume. She first saw the point of a wand, and following soon after, was the head and shoulders of Remus Lupin. Harry's heart thundered raucously against her ribs. When he was fully within the toilets, and investigating the stalls, she made to slip out, Myrtle wailing and glaring down at her all the while. It was also just her luck that the cloak would snag over the light switch, pulling it off and exposing her sopping form to Lupin.

They stared at each other.

He blinked a few times. "Harry?"

"Ah – I was just going for a midnight stroll," she said lamely.

His eyebrows rose to an impressive altitude.

* * *

Harry began having revenge fantasies about Moaning Myrtle all the way back to the common room – she wasn't sure how one exacted revenge against a ghost, but surely she could find out. But at the same time... she'd been escorted back to Gryffindor tower by _him_.

He smelled delightful, like old flannel and a hint of bourbon, and something bitter she couldn't place was on his breath. Had he been drinking? She didn't think so, but.

He hadn't taken any points but had lectured for a moment. Her mind wandered, going dim and animalistic in the low way he spoke. She said something like "yes, sir" before mumbling something to the Fat Lady, who was playing cards with a sixteenth century potions master.

That night she climbed into her four-poster and heaved a great sigh. The others were well and deep asleep. And behind these curtains, well, it wouldn't hurt to try.

_His large, warm hand on her shoulder._..

_His patchy old robes that smelled so good_...

_The cowlick at his temple_...

_The way the corner of his mouth twitched_...

Harry exhaled sharply, her knees drawing out, and let out a small cry of relief. Burning with shame at her noise, she buried her face in her pillow, but smiled as she realized there hadn't been a break any neither Parvati nor Lavender or even Hermione's snores. Her last thought before sleep was _No more Myrtle... No more Myrtle!_


	2. Barty Crouch Jr

**Pairing**: Barty Crouch Jr polyjuiced as Alastor Moody/Harry, Barty/Winky  
**Timeline**: Goblet of Fire  
**Warnings**: Adult/minor, noncon

I know this is a highly unlikely scenario, but it made me laugh. Barty is so flat and villainish, wow. So there.

* * *

The Potter girl was pretty – but the kind that never did anything about it: her hair was in a permanent state of bed-tousled disregard, her robes buttoned sloppily, and those ridiculous spectacles... But as just about every else in the wizarding world mooned over her, he too found himself observing her in a certain slant of light.

It wasn't long before the First Task's occurrence he began formulating a plan, and what did he care if it fell through. Potter was just a silly little girl, and he was, well... he was _him_. The scheme involved a little bit of affection, a little coaxing and perhaps his wand if need be. It had been so long since he was buried balls-deep in a warm, wet hole – namely that Lestrange woman, who had offered herself up to the Dark Lord's followers as if it were part of the orientation ceremony. Since then it had been himself or...

...Winky, his father's house-elf.

As it turned out, human bits were too large for house-elf bits. All except for their mouths, with which Winky attended to him almost daily, worshipfully.

"Anything for Master Barty," she'd say, kneeling under the cloak and her large, bulgy eyes nothing but reverent as his prick stretched her cheeks out to an almost comical size. Winky was ugly as any other house-elf, but she'd done her duty and done it well. Besides the utter convenience of having something-someone slavishly devoted to your satisfaction, there was a certain charm in having the mess cleaned up right away...

Alastor Moody was unsightly, to put it delicately. He wondered if the Potter girl would put up much of a fight – he very well couldn't _Imperio_ her, not after that display in class. He must rely on cunning and if not that, spell-o tape and a subsequent memory charm. He was looking forward to it, almost, because the last wet thing he'd had on his cock was his own spunk mingled with Winky's drool and hot tears.

* * *

"Potter," he said gruffly after class, as all the students were filtering out, "Haven't gotten the chance to congratulate you on your victory in the First Task."

She looked up at him in what appeared to be alarm, then her features smoothed out to give him a faint, knowing smile. "Not without your help, sir," she said quietly.

He took a swig from his flask, eying her all the while.

"You getting along with your new clues all right?"

At this, her eyes crawled over everything but him. Shame? Doubt? "Er, not yet, sir."

"Maybe you'd like to discuss it over some tea tonight?" Some distant part of his mind laughed at how absurd the phrasing was – as if he were asking her out for a date or something. To make it seem less _romantic_, or that way inclined, he added: "I've got a hunch about that egg 'o yours."

"Do you?" She looked like she was trying to maintain a mask of interest. Had she already figured it out?

"Well, in any case," he said, his magical blue eye scrutinizing her along with his regular, "You wouldn't mind, would yeh?"

"Of course not! I'll stop by after supper."

And there she went, darting out of the classroom like Death Eaters were nipping at her heels.

* * *

He prepared the tea with items he'd filched from Severus Snape's stockroom in the dungeons – the git would likely blame it on one of his students. A couple months in and brewing his own Polyjuice, he was well-acquainted with how Snape had his stock organized and it took only a moment to brew something that would put her in a drugged stupor for a couple hours, at the very least, with her proportions, small thing as she was. Child's play, really.

Shortly after seven o'clock Potter arrived to his office, looking a tad unsure. "Evening, Professor," she said entering, and sat in the large gnarled maroon armchair across from his desk.

"Evening, Potter," he said, taking a sip of tea. He nudged the cup and saucer toward her. Steam rose in tiny spirals, and it looked as normal as any other tea. "Go on, have a cup."

"Thanks," she said.

"You didn't happen to bring that egg along with you, eh? It might help to take a gander." He schooled his voice into something sounding hopeful. She set her tea down and bent to dig through her satchel. He took a moment to review the goods. Something like disappointment built in his throat as his eyes slid over her bony rump (you could tell even under the robes). He'd been in Azkaban as long as she was alive, and he'd even had more meat on him then. It couldn't be helped, he supposed.

She slid it the across the desk to him, where his hands toyed with it in a sort of feigned interest. She resumed her seat in the stuffy armchair, and to his favor, she brought her knees to her chest, seeming to relax. His thumb fiddled with the lock and he shot a covert glance at her face. Her eyelids were drooping. Excellent.

"Yeh've any ideas yet?"

"Mmm.. Cedric...he told me somethin' 'bout...'bout... " her words faltered.

He waited a moment to pounce – the fire flickered merrily in the grate, the clock hands seemed to fighting their way through honey, and quiet had settled over the room until he got up. The familiar ripple of the Polyjuice's abrupt ending fought his skin, and he dumped the remnants of his flask down his throat. Wiping off his lips, he observed the girl. A thick forelock covered her scar, and her long eyelashes fluttered under those ridiculous specs. He used Moody's gnarled, calloused fingers to slap her cheek lightly, to see if the potion's effects had completely taken her out. Not surprising, this slight chit.

It had occurred to him at some point he wouldn't be using his own dick – which had been lovingly fawned over many a night by a house-elf – but Alastor Moody's girthy, and quite veiny, manhood. He wondered how it would be inside Potter. Pissing it was pretty easy, because it was so stubby, compared to his own long thin one. He was already in a state of arousal. Settling Potter's body over the desk and splaying her legs at a comfortable angle, he peeled down her knickers – of course, it had been so long he almost thumped himself on the head not for doing it. He spit on his fingers and coated her pink, warm insides with his saliva. He growled lowly at how tight she felt.

His cock twitched as he leveled himself with her thights, dragging her slightly backward. It was utterly fantastic, better than Winky of course, and that Lestrange woman. His intention was to be quick and he was. The Potter girl's insides gripped him like an ankle sock on Gregory Goyle's foot. With each thrust he grew more and more reckless, not caring if he flooded her insides with his come. (If somehow he did get her pregnant, the child would be his – not Moody's. A slight imperfection that marred an otherwise glowing plan.) One last hump and he jerked forward, his elbows on either side of her body. His seed came in several spurts, spilling mostly over himself but a little on her black robes. He Scourgified them both and then arranged her as she had been.

It was two and a half hours till she came to.

"You conked out on me, Potter," he said with a tinge of amusement as she stretched rather like a cat and yawned, slapping a hand over her mouth when she saw the clock.

"I'm so sorry, sir... Very tired."

"'S alright, Potter. Let me take you back to your common room, then."

"Of course, thanks," she said, slinging her satchel over her shoulder. He walked in tandem a slight smile on his face as all the way back to the Gryffindor tower.


	3. Neville Longbottom

**Pairing**: Neville/Harry  
**Timeline**: Unspecified  
**Warnings**: None, pretty vanilla

* * *

Harry never had predicted the day she would be crouched under Neville Longbottom, his cock rubbing deliciously against her slit and his big, soft hands cupping her arse. He lurched forward one last time, breathless, before sliding into her awaiting entrance. Harry bit her lip—they _were _in the boy's dormitory, after all—it wouldn't do to have Ron or Seamus walk in on her being fucked from behind by Neville, of all people. Quashing the thought, she drew her hips back to meet his, slowly and exploringly, until their sweat-damp flesh began to slap.

His fingers dug into her buttocks painfully, as his pace frenzied and his breath came shallow and fast. His hands fluttered momentarily, then rested on the small of her back; he re-angled his penis so it drove in incredibly deep—Harry cried out, her glasses dropping onto the duvet and her fists balls in the sheets. The thrusts changed into slams, and Neville seemed singly focused on driving into at this angle. With some effort, she rolled her hips back and was rewarded with a very uncharacteristic growl of satisfaction. She felt Neville's fingers traveling up—he rolled her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Harry bit back a cry.

One hand left her breast and settled at the base of her abdomen, skimming lower yet, until it reached her plumped clit. He ground his thumb against it in tortuous circles, never losing his pace. Harry gasped, her back bowing and lurching forward. Neville's hand slid to her shoulder and pulled her back a little harshly, sending ripples of pleasure all the way through her body. Who knew Neville could be so... _dominant_. He leaned over her, his warm length pressing against her shivering back. He sucked on her neck, behind her ears and up her jaw. Did he think he was a bath-sponge?

"Neville... _please_... " she moaned.

This clumsy boy humping her mercilessly, making her knees weak and buckling. With one last hard slam, she came, her insides clenching and holding him tightly as he gave a few last sharp, automatic thrusts before pile-driving into the pillows next to her. His eyelashes fluttered, and he fought to regain his breath. Harry rescued her glasses before Neville rolled on them – he shot her an apologetic look before closing his eyes.

She wasn't sure what do with herself exactly, so she lay there staring at the ceiling, her eyes half-closed. Neville was probably already half-asleep – that was the thing with boys, she thought irritably. They also fell asleep after the fact, it seemed.

But, much to her surprise, Neville's had had re-opened and he was looking around as if searching for something to say. "I hope you get good marks on your O.W.L.S."

"Certainly," she murmured, thinking what an odd topic of conversation after sex. "You, too."

He folded his arms behind his head and she couldn't help but admire the way it pushed out his chest, undeniably his best feature. "I think I'll probably fail the Potions, but Herbology'll be a breeze."

"Mm," she grunted, curling into his side. That's why she was doing this for him, repaying him for Herbology tutoring. She in turn had offered to help him with Potions—but he had opted to study Hermione's notes instead. So, incidentally, had Harry.

Hermione's notes were great and all, but sometimes too abreviated to understand anything unless you asked her clarify, and that took god knows how long. Neville's Herbology notes were brief, almost lovingly crafted and to the point.

It wasn't like she was using him, though—she offered herself to him willingly. Perhaps at first because she felt bad for him, and later because he was really, really bloody good at this. And that thought lead to: where in Merlin's beard had Neville—a pure-blooded, simpering, gutless tool by all non-Gryffindor accounts—learn how to fuck so... _savagely_? Certainly not anyone she knew. Girls like Parvati and Lavender tended to pity, not fuck. (She was guilty of the pity part.) But it was so hard to picture sweet, clumsy Neville chatting up anyone for the express purpose of sex, much less a relationship. So she decided to ask:

"Neville—wh-where did you learn how to—do that so _well_? she managed.

"I–" his voice faltered.

She rolled over, sliding a hand over his chest. "Oh, was it an older woman, then?" she teased.

He swallowed. "Y-yes."

"One of your gran's friends?" Her smile grew crooked.

"'Course not. . ."

"A lady you met in Diagon Alley?"

"P-professor Sprout, actually," he blurted, looking as if it pained him a great deal to confide this.

"Professor Sprout?" Harry repeated flatly.

"Yes." He drew into himself a moment before Harry put a hand on either side of him, and stared down.

Visions of Neville drilling into Pomona Sprout's lumpy old body assault her mind—she quickly squashed them by capturing Neville's lips in a heated kiss. One of his hands roamed over her chest, squeezing her breast. She moaned into his mouth and straddled him. His cock was hard again. Such were teenage boys, she mused.

"You're not kidding, huh," she said, once again letting her mind wander to the greenhouses.

"In the dirt—many times—she isn't much to look at but she's got clever fingers—" He was preoccupied with pushing the spongy tip of penis along her folds. Harry lounged back on her hands to let him play.

"Neville, as much as my curiosity's hounding me, I think it's for the best if I don't have anymore details," she grit out. It wouldn't be long before everyone was back from dinner and she'd be without an escape route.

Neville pulled her forward so he could suckle her erect nipples, kissing the valley between them as he left one for another. She raked her nails over his scalp, and his shuttered eyes met her own.

"You ready?" he asked airly. She nodded.

His head bowed back, and she took advantage to kiss him there, licking and sucking down to his collarbone. She grinned down at his dopey face, and smiled when his hands cupped her arse once more, raising her and letting her drop back down. They moaned in tandem, and Harry couldn't help but think this was the best end to at tutoring session she'd ever had.

* * *

I wouldn't complain if anyone reviewed. I really wouldn't.


	4. Sirius Black

**Pairing**: Sirius/Harry  
**Timeline**: _Order of the Phoenix_  
**Warnings**: Adult/minor, dubcon

This was intended to be more substantial, but I guess I'm incapable of that. Haha. The ending's also kind of meh. Please enjoy regardless.

* * *

She kept telling herself it felt nice—cocooned in a doxy-bitten quilt, and a naked Sirius wrapped around it. His mouth hung open; his braying snores carrying the stink of Firewhiskey and lingering around her nostrils like a foul reminder. She buried her face in the pillows, her hair a wreath of dark snarls in the moonlight.

_He offered her a sip._

_She took it hesitantly and tipped the shot glass back. Ugh—it tasted awful. It burned down her throat in a harsh, acrid line. She coughed, and was reminded of the time Dudley and Piers Polkiss forced her to drink some of the sacramental wine Piers had filched from church._

_She gave Sirius a look of disbelief. "And you drink this like _water_?"_

_"Unfortunately." He laughed, looking neither quite amused nor quite sad._

* * *

Harry had been brushing her teeth in the spotty old mirror, when she heard footsteps in the hall. She knew it was Sirius—she didn't need to look, but a sinking feeling in her stomach prompted her to go out anyway. It was him, all right: He leaned against the row of house-elf heads, illuminated by the buttery glow of a hall-lamp. His eyes were closed and he was in a ratty plaid robe, his dark hair spilling over his shoulders as if he'd actually deigned to run a comb through it.

"Sirius?" she asked softly.

"Mm, love?" he seemed to mumble. His eyes fluttered open, and fixed her with an intensely tired look. "You about done? The downstairs bathroom's crawling with doxies and I haven't got the coordination to blast them and pee at the same time."

"Er–go ahead," she said.

He stumbled into the bathroom.

It was quite awkward then, listening to him pee. He left the door open a bit — much to her discomfort — and began talking. "Now, Harry, I don't want you to think that I'm like this 'round the clock. It's the holidays, and I've had so much time to brood 'tween feeding Buckbeak and them order meetings. . .I get to thinking about the good ol' days with your father and Moony. And then I think what do I need those times for now that I have you. . .need to push forward to the future. . ."—there was a crash—"Love, would you mind helping this old man up? I seemed to have misplaced my balance."

She crept into the bathroom, recoiling slightly at the sight of his robe undone, his legs splayed and his bits in direct view. She jerked her eyes away before his could focus on her. Harry held her hands out for him to grab onto and very nearly screamed when, instead of him going up, she toppled down on him.

Her ears going scarlet, Harry scuttled off him in a crabwalk.

Rather than getting back up though, Sirius seemed determined to stay on the carpet. Despite a squeal of protest, he hauled Harry to sit in his exposed lap – she attempted to scrap away, subtly, but Sirius' hands clamped on her hips like a vice.

"What are you doing?" she said thickly, swallowing.

"Harry, you're a very pretty girl, you know that? You've got your mother's eyes and your dad's everything else," his voice was low in her ear and she couldn't repress the shiver that stole through her, at how close he was.

"I think you've told me the latter part about a hundred times," she said lamely.

His grip loosened on her hips, but he turned her to face him. He stared down at her, his eyes dark with something she wasn't sure – wasn't sure she wanted to _know_. But another part of her did... she thought of other girls, their lovers, their families... Really inappropriate to confuse the two... stupid, really... to think of Sirius as anything but her godfather... his hands currently tangling in her hair, his mouth covering hers hungrily, their tongues sliding together, and his hot, bitter taste... Thinking weakly that she should make some form of protest, but her hands coming to rest on his chest and feeling the coarse hairs under her fingers...

...his hand slipped beneath her nightgown, to under her knickers.

She felt the sticky, burning tip of his erection pressing against her belly. He swallowed the cry from her lips when he ran a finger along the seam of her sex, gathering moisture and working steadily toward her swollen clit. His thumb pressed insistently against her and she arched into him as if she'd been electrified. He whispered something in to her hair his hand squeezing her buttock painfully hard.

Sirius' breath came ragged. He mashed their mouths together and guided her hands to his penis. Enclosed in his, her hands circled the shaft, feeling each vein and groove, and one of his own hands cupped his balls.

He hissed through his teeth and crushed her to him again, rather awkwardly, and despite his previous claims of imbalance, swept her up in his arms—cradled as it were, and kissed her all the way to his bedroom, muttering things like _shouldn't_ and _soft _and _so what_.

* * *

Harry woke up feeling rather sore; she checked herself in the age-spotted mirror, bruises and bites nearly everywhere on her body. She moved stiffly toward the stairs, where she heard someone—likely Sirius—puttering around the kitchen.

Gathering her courage, she descended, catching a glimpse of Kreacher, who looked like he wanted to give her a good kick. She yawned hugely but held the balustrade in a death-grip, for fear of those tricky steps. It occurred to her, as the upstairs vanished from sight, that she'd had her first kiss beneath a row of stuffed house-elf heads. It suited the situation, she thought morbidly. She remembered very little of last night and aimed to keep it that way. Certainly Sirius was feeling like shit. She made her mind up not to speak of it—to him or to anyone.

When she entered the kitchen, he smiled weakly at her over his shoulder. "Mornin', love."

"Morning, Sirius," she took a seat at the stool nearest the cook-top, and winced when she sat. They hadn't done it _there _too—had they? One too many firsts in a night, she thought bitterly, and returned his small smile while the sizzling bacon and eggs calmed her nerves.


	5. Charlie Weasley

**Pairing**: Charlie Weasley/Harry  
**Timeline**: Post-DH  
**Warnings**: Dirtiness, but no real sex.

* * *

It seemed after the tide of funerals, there was a wave of weddings to follow, and Harry attended them with a private sort of greed—mopping everyone's fresh, tentative happiness like a dirty rag. She was lit at nearly every occasion, clapping like a maniac and had so far caught two bouquets and been a bridesmaid thrice. It was getting addicting, and at this last celebration for a long while—George Weasley and Angelina Johnson's wedding—she was pouring more gin than ever. No one tried to stop her, because no one was ever quite sure how much she'd had: she sat back calmly with her hands folded in her lap as Angelina, George, Ron and Bill set off fireworks in the hills of Ottery St. Catchpole. Mr and Mrs Weasley were engaging in half-coherent conversation with Angelina's mother and father, who were a secretary at the Ministry and a Quidditch promotions manager, respectively. The dialogue went through one of Harry's ears and out the other, and by the looks of it, Ginny, too. She looked about half-awake, her eyes dim in the sparking fireworks. Once or twice she tilted her head back to follow a particularly bright one, but it drooped back down to form.

"Ginny?" Harry whispered after a moment.

"Whuh?"

"You think we ought to be gettin' to bed now?"

"Yeh, tha's a mighty fine idear, Harr—butch y'know—yeh might 'av to carry me back. M' body's not in top form, y'know," Ginny said this a little loudly, and the Johnsons regarded her with mild alarm.

"Not ter worry," Harry said, sounding oddly like Hagrid to her own ears. "I'll get 'er up."

Harry pushed herself off the lawn chair, and staggered forward only a tiny bit. She grabbed Ginny's arms and tugged until Ginny lay face-first in the grass. "Gin? Gin?" She was snoring. Harry struggled to drag Ginny to her knees, and finally, with a slight bump in the path to the house, Ginny woke with a start. "Wh—" She rose to her feet and loomed over Harry, whom she was half a head taller than.

"I can get mehself, thanks," she smiled, and tripped over a gnome that was racing toward the trees. She caught it by its bald head and reared her arm back, so it squealed, and Harry watched it soar several yards, screaming its throat raw. Ginny got back up again and staggered toward the house, ignoring Harry's guiding arm around her shoulders. They got in the kitchen without committing any remarkable property damage and crawled up the stairs. Ginny pushed her bedroom door open with a grunt, and frowned down at her bed to see Hermione was curled in it already. She knocked Hermione to the far end of the bed—she didn't even wake—and began to snore immediately. Harry stared on for a few minutes before deciding she needed to pee.

She examined her ruined makeup in the mirror, and her snarled hair. She rubbed at her eyes until they looked like a raccoon's. Finally, she sat on the toilet but nothing came. So rather than getting back up, she waited, pulling one of Mrs Weasley's _Witch Weekly_s from the dusty magazine rack. The cover had the Keeper for the Chudley Cannons on it—_what's his name?_ Inside was an exclusive interview. Harry learned everything about him. His favorite color, his birthweight, his favorite pudding—_everything but his bleedin' name_. She tossed the rag in the corner of the room in frustration.

There came a knock on the door. "Everything all right in there?"

"Yes," she cried back. "I'm jus' tryin' to pee, but ain't getting a trickle."

"_Harry_?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

Charlie Weasley pulled the door back. "Are you okay?"

"No," she said scowling, "I can't figure out this stupid bloke's name."

* * *

After having a long, one-sided conversation about the abysmal outlook on the Chudley Cannons, Harry removed herself from the bathroom with nary a trickle. She snatched the magazine from the corner on her way out.

"Look at 'im," she sneered, brandishing the cover in Charlie's face. "Look at that man: 'e's jus' smilin' like he ain't got a thought in 'is 'ead."

Charlie—who had ever been in Harry's company long enough to know she was generally a pleasant person, and occasionally had a quip and an a slight temper belying her bespectacled face—was astonished. He stared at her blankly. Every time he met her, she had always pronounced her _h_'s.

"Harry," he said uncertainly, "how much have you had to drink?"

"Mmm... that's hard to say. A lot, I reckon." She broke into a fit of giggles, and coughing thereafter.

Charlie thought perhaps it was time to leave her. "I, er, well... maybe you ought to be getting to bed then?"

"I 'spose... but you'll have to help me... Leggin' Ginny up was trouble enough... "

"It's three stairs, Harry."

Harry, seemingly ignoring this, extended a hand, and gave him an expectant–almost sober–look. Sighing, he took it delicately and lead her up the three steps, grimacing as she toed each one as if she were hopping on rocks in the middle of a pond. "Easy," he said, jerking open the door to Ginny's room to see both her and Hermione twisted together like a yin and yang symbol. He left Harry off at the foot of the bed and she looked suddenly very sad. She shook the several-month-old magazine out like a great scroll and frowned at it as if it were written in Sanskrit.

"I can't read this anymore. My eyes can't take it. Would you tell me who the Keeper for the Chudley Cannons is?"

"Durmot Loxley, it says here on the cover."

"The _cover_! You're not serious." Her face was scarlet.

"Mm, 'fraid so," he hummed mildly, "Well, g'night, Harry."

"G'night," she mumbled, stretching over the unoccupied spread.

* * *

At four a.m. Charlie felt two things stirring beneath his blanket.

One of them he blearily recognized as Harry, with her glasses cool against his flesh as she kissed her way down his stomach – and the other, well...

He pushed her a little roughly from himself, and recoiled near the headboard. She swayed uneasily as he ripped himself from her, gripping the duvet in a vice and grimacing as the bed lamp filled her eyes with bright, unwelcome light. "_Harry_ – what in Merlin's beard are you doing?" he demanded. He was ever so glad Percy had taken up the sofa and Ron had been unable to climb the stairs (in fact, that's where he might be right now).

"I wanted to thank you," she said blankly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Saying 'thank you' sufficed alright." Charlie couldn't help but sound exasperated. After a long silence of Harry looking extremely sheepish, but blinking around like a vampire in daylight, and his penis still a pronounced lump under the duvet, Charlie sighed, and did a double-take to see his mother's _Witch Weekly_ spread near Harry's feet. Durmot Loxley was a handsome guy, he'd give him that.

"Y'know," Harry began thickly, sounding as if she'd just woken up from a stupor, "this magazine is over six years old. Loxley quit the Cannons almost four years ago because they found him shagging the manager's daughter in the locker rooms... They traded him for some bloke in Morocco..."

"Well, that's nice," said Charlie. "But are you feeling well enough to get back to your room now? I have to be leaving early, there's a Portkey for Satu Mare in London at nine... "

Harry's face flooded with color. "Oh – yes! Yes! I'm sorry, very sorry! I'll be going now!" She scrambled off the bed, snatching up the magazine and rocketing out the door with a speed humans usually only achieved with a late-model broom. He sighed, flicking the light off and rubbing his nose. He was still stiff as a board... Well, better not to waste it, you were young only once.

-x-

Harry had made it to the bathroom in time – as well as tripping over Ron, sprawled over the stairs in front of the bathroom. She flushed to toilet victoriously, and clambered around Ron, who grunted a little.


	6. Ron Weasley

**Pairing**: Ron/Harry  
**Timeline**: sixth year maybe?  
**Warnings**: sex

* * *

It was drafty in the locker-rooms, and as mucky and breathless and glistening with sweat she was, Harry really didn't feel like taking off all her clothes and standing under the spray. But she did, anyway, because, well–that's just what you do after a really intense Quidditch practice.

She shoved her robes off her shoulders and peeled off her underthings, letting them fall into a crumpled heap next to her bag. The showers were empty except for the echoing calls of the Hufflepuff team outside, all canary-yellow blurs to her unspectacled eyes. It felt good, she conceded, to stand under the warm spray, although her feet were cold on the stone and the drain. She went about the dressing process lazily, letting herself drip-dry and slinging a towel over her shoulders. She was half-dressed when someone was pulling the knocker on the heavy wood door—she flung her school robes over herself quickly. "Who is it?" she called tentatively. Sometimes it was one of the younger boys on the team, wanting to know something.

"It's me, Ron," came the muffled reply.

She visibly relaxed, and sighed, "Come in."

Ron was utterly disgusting: coated in mud from head-to-toe, his hair plastered at odd angles because of the sweat, and stains in the armpits of his scarlet robes. He strode in without any decorum whatsoever, and commenced tugging off his boots. Harry scoffed.

"You're lucky," she said, lotioning up her feet.

"Yeah?" he grunted.

She looked up at him. "_Yeah_. If someone catches you in the girl's locker rooms, you'll get detention."

He added his robes to her pile of foul-smelling ones. He didn't seem very conscious of the fact he was in a girls-only area. In fact, he seemed a little _too _comfortable. But maybe that was her fault. For inviting him in here so often, that is.

"It's a helluva lot nicer in here. Doesn't smell so bad," he said, turning on the shower. Harry, despite herself, gave him a sidelong glance; she flushed when she saw his arousal. She'd seen it many times at this point, but something about it, just the weird casualness of it, still bothered her. She knew the coming sequence of events, or had a fairly good idea of what they would entail, but it didn't come as easy to her as it did to him. To be naked around other people all the time. He'd grown up with five older brothers and a younger sister with whom he'd had to take baths with all his childhood. Harry had spent year five and up trying to keep Dudley from spying on her in the bathtub.

"C'mere," was all he had to say.

"I already took a shower," she grumbled.

"Well, after I'm done with you, you'll probably need another anyway. Now, c'mon, before the Hufflepuffs get done." He was grinning, and stroking himself already.

Harry stepped under the spray with him, and he had to bend awkwardly to kiss her. She wrapped one arm around his neck and the other hand around his cock, delighting in the moan she coaxed out. She'd read in one of Lavender's magazines that guys didn't care about handjobs so much, on account of all the masturbating they did, but Ron's response assured her that was complete and utter dross in his case.

He smelled good now; lathered up with his wet hair slicked back. Harry squirmed when he fiddled around with her arse, and pushed him into the shower wall. He made some indistinct noise of protest, of anger, she didn't know, but he made a different sound when she slid to her knees and took him in her mouth. She bobbed up and down on him, glancing up every now and then to see his eyes screwed shut.

He gripped her hair unnecessarily tight, she let him know with a yelp of pain, and quickly manuevered their bodies so Harry's vision was all gray stone and seeing the pores up close; he pushed in without warning and she bit her cry back. He started slow, undulating his hips, making her a little woozy with the feel of him filling her up. Then after he'd had enough of slow-and-sweet, he began hammering, pounding forward. Harry's hand scrambled against the wet stone as she saw stars. Her feeble attempts of being quiet went out the window, along with a shrill, sharp cry of pleasure when he drove in like a Muggle jackhammer, and if she mentioned it, he'd surely question what he was being compared to.

With one last gasp, he pushed his hips and all of her forward. She didn't come right when he did, but rather a moment later... He slouched against the wall, rubbing his eyes and catching his breath. Semen was trickling down his thigh. Harry couldn't help but appreciate how lean and tall he was, as she rinsed herself off.

It was funny how Lavender humored her by lending her all those magazines, chalkful of sex tips, as if Harry's interest was pitiful and desperate and was only wishful thinking. It was funny how Lavender's boyfriend kept coming to her. It was really funny. All of it was.


	7. Lucius Malfoy

Pairing: Lucius/Harry  
Timeline: ?  
Warnings: crack

It was only three months after his mother's tragic death at the blades of a pair of enchanted hedge-clippers that Draco's father brought home a titchy witch in dark green robes and a rather unfortunate-looking pair of trainers. It wasn't until he saw her face did he shatter his wine goblet all over the floor in shock. She gave him a benign, if pitiying, smile and clung to his father's arm, all the way out the gardens where his mother's memory lay betwixt the sun-colored poppies and cawing yams.

"Father... it's _Potter_," he protested the moment she left, that one word carrying enough disgust to sink a ship.

Lucius poured himself a goblet of wine and gave his son a look of well-bred irritation. "Be that as it may, she's arranging some splendid things for me and it would put me in a dire position to shrug her off now. Give me time, son, and it will lapse into a relationship of pure social convenience. You will see."

Somewhat mollified by his father's ever-scheming nature, Draco left with the knot in his stomach loosened.

Only Lucius thought it was a pity that Draco didn't hear his sardonic laughter filling the drawing room. He tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fire and said, "the Hog's Head Inn."

Three hours later, in the damp, slightly crusty sheets of a bed in Hogsmeade, Lucius Malfoy pulled out his corn-cob pipe and began ruminating on the mysteries of life as his young lover snoozed placidly on his shoulder. She stirred, and he looked down to see her reaching for her glasses. He sat his paper down and, in a very ungentlemanly fashion, tugged her against him and began kissing her so frantically that their teeth gnashed together. She pulled back in alarm, and very shyly, put a small hand on his chest.

"Lucius. We need to talk."

"About what, love? What is there to talk about when I–"

"That's just the problem!" she said, looking impossibly forlorn.

"Well, go on," he said when she said nothing.

"It's just that—Kingsley Shacklebolt keeps giving me looks. Like, he knows I've been shagging a Death Eater—"

"—_former _Death Eater—"

"Well, he doesn't know the bloody difference!" she snapped.

"All that matters is you do, love, no one else," he whispered tenderly, gathering her into his arms, "why I should think if everyone knew I've been shagging a half-bre—er, half-blood, that is to say, witch, that my reputation for the advocation of racial purity and prejudice against Mud—er, Muggle-borns, that is to say, should rather be diminished, now shouldn't it? That's what my PR specialist says, anyway."

Harry blinked, looking at the nightstand where a magazine lay catty-corner to a conga line of dead cockroaches. "What's that?"

"What's what, darling?"

She reached over him for the magazine. The cover was a beaming Lucius, looking twenty-odd years younger, and Harry's own face superimposed on a body that was clearly not hers. The neck wasn't even the same color. A strange revelation hit her as she stared down at it: this was Lucius and Narcissa's wedding photo and this was _Witch Weekly_.

"You troll!" she screeched, and Disapparated in a flurry of green and glinting eyes.

Lucius settled back against the headboard with a sigh. So much for rebuilding his public image. Then an idea hit him... Granger, Potter's little friend...


	8. Cormac McLaggen

"You're a dirty little girl, aren't you?"

These words were from Cormac McLaggen, who was grinning at her so widely she thought his face might split. She'd never seen him so happy. He'd been pawing at her all night, pulling her into his lap and teasing her with his thick fingers until she finally decided to take him up to her and Ginny's flat in Hogsmeade, where they were now nearly naked, her straddling him and kissing his chest, and he looking like he'd just been drafted for the Cannons.

"No one's ever done that to me before," he said breathlessly, tangling his fingers in her hair as she licked around his left nipple lazily, grinning up at him. He was covered in coarse, wiry hairs—_everywhere_. It was a bit of an effort to not get any caught on her teeth or mouth, but he seemed to like this so she continued. Each groan he punctuated with a sharp tug to her hair, stinging her scalp. When she trailed lower, his noises varied from throaty to high-pitched squeals of delight. She'd never been with someone so loud or expressive of pleasure. It was different, for sure. The usual grunts of approval were hers alone tonight.

Once his penis was in her mouth it was hard not to laugh, because he made this strange keening noise, like Errol did just before collapsing in the gravy boat at the Burrow. She accidentally choked with his cock in her mouth—and pulled off sputtering, face red, as he frowned down at her in concern.

"Is everything okay down there?"

"Everything is–quite–quite all right," she wheezed.

She redoubled her efforts to please him, and perhaps coax some more bizarre sounds from him. Ginny would be delighted to hear about it in the morning. She catalogued a few rasping gasps, a quick succession of fuckfuckfucks as he leveled his hips in the air and soiled himself with come, and lastly she documented some of the most resonant snoring she had ever heard as his hairy arse wiggled in the moonlight and she herself drifted off to sleep.


	9. Vincent Crabbe & Gregory Goyle

It was a well-known fact that Gregory Goyle's breath smelled like troll bogies.

(Crabbe's was foul in its own special way.)

But Goyle's rancid breath that aroused some terrible memories. Specifically those of fighting a troll in the first year, of Quirrell, and having troll bogies all over her wand. She gagged a bit, but soldiered on. Goyle's tongue slid wetly against hers and she made a well-timed eager noise when his fingers crept up the hem of her skirt.

She had been informed, rather shyly, this was Goyle's second time with a girl. The first being an incident with Millicent Bulstrode last year, something involving hairy legs and a bit of a moustache. He kept smoothing his hand over her legs, so she imagined it must have been traumatic.

And while it certainly felt as though Goyle was eating her face, and his breath was terrible, and his father was a Death Eater and he was enormously ugly and stupid and it was more than likely he himself one day would be a Death Eater, all in all, it wasn't a terrible experience. She'd learned a bit about what Malfoy was up to — not a lot, but enough to keep her suspicions afloat — and this empty classroom was noted for future use, should the occasion arrise.

They finally broke apart, gathering their wits. Harry, anyway. Goyle didn't have any to begin with.

"Will you meet me here again? Tonight?" he asked breathlessly.

Harry found herself at a bit of a loss. "Er—" a multitude of excuses filtered through her brain. Quidditch practice, detention, homework, logic, reason. All valid, all irrelevant tonight.

Goyle looked suddenly very self-conscious, and a blush pinkened his fat cheeks. "And would it be any trouble... if... if Crabbe were to watch?"

"Crabbe... wants to watch?" she asked slowly.

"I... yeah," he said lamely.

Harry's brain went into overdrive. And from sheer inability to refuse a chance to perhaps investigate Malfoy further. (Crabbe was a handful of IQ points smarter than Goyle, who often misspelled his name on tests. Crabbe might even provide something. Quid pro quo.)

"All right," she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She missed Goyle's silent but dramatic air-pump.

* * *

"This isn't to leave this room," she told both of them, her tone edged with danger. "Nothing that happens here tonight leaves this room. Is this understood?"

She looked from boy to boy, and each nodded his assent. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good," she said, and set to undressing. They watched her with undisguised hunger, and to her private delight, neither seemed disappointed. Of course, compared to Millicent Bulstrode—who had also apparently been Crabbe's first paramour, and similarly repulsed him with her hairy legs—a naked hag might have been a treat. She shivered a little in the cold dungeon, her nipples stiffened and Crabbe let out a low moan when she took off her bra. Goyle's hands twitched at his side. Perfect.

She raised an eyebrow. "Shall we start then?"

Goyle started in on her like she was a chocolate cake and he had no fork or table manners. He suckled her little breasts, and fondled them, gasping in delight when she took him in her palm. Over his shoulder she could see Crabbe rubbing himself against a desk covertly, making a strangled sound when they made eye contact and she nibbled Goyle's ear, which thankfully was clear of wax.

Goyle was wriggling a finger inside her, her arms clasped tightly around his neck, when Crabbe seemed unable to contain himself. He came forward, despite Goyle's reproving look, and ground his trousered crotch against her bare bottom. His thick fingers traveled over her ass, seemingly transfixed, and he clumsily pulled her from Goyle for a sloppy, but much more controlled than Goyle, kiss. She twisted, and wound her arms about him, leaving Goyle to paw at her breasts a bit irritably, growling low when Crabbe began humping her solar plexus and beating the breath out of her lungs for how much taller he was.

"Ok, ok," she wheezed, pulling back.

She surveyed them shrewdly. "You, sit on the floor," she told Goyle.

She got to her knees, and began unfastening Goyle's trousers, ignoring the stupefied look on his ugly mug. His erection sprung out, thick and angry, hot and veiny. Her nimble little fingers wrapped around the base, and her lips covered the purply, mushroomlike head. She only broke away once to beckon Crabbe over with a jerk of her head. He staggered forward quickly, and dropped to his knees, hovering behind. She raised her bottom invitingly.

"Put it in, then," she said thickly. Crabbe groaned.

He pushed the tip of it between her thighs, not even close to the hole, but pumped eagerly anyway, and slammed her forward onto Goyle's cock many times. It felt pretty good, she admitted grudgingly.

Goyle had his huge knuckles in his mouth, sucking away the blood he'd drawn when biting them. He lay back with his eyes in his head, and it wasn't long before a gush of come shot from the tip of his penis, and Harry's hands were sticky. She wiped them on his trousers, and then waited for Crabbe to burst as well, and he did, coming with a loud grunt.

She pulled out her wand to clean up. The two still remained slumped in their respective places, catching their breath.

"Now, for you end of the deal."


	10. Firenze

Pairing: Firenze/Harry (one-sided)  
Notes: Drabble/crack/WTF

Next chapter is either going to be Fenrir Greyback (not the movie version, ewwwww) or Mundungus Fletcher.

-x-x-

"It's always a pleasure to see you, Harriet Potter."

That's what Firenze's mouth said. His body on the other hand, well, Harry had never quite seen such a thing up close before. She wondered if he realized or—

"You will make a good mare to some lucky stallion someday," he said abruptly.

"Er, thanks," Harry said, quite unsure of how else to respond.

"I think... It's best if you take your leave now," he said thickly, for once looking mildly uncomfortable. He certainly hadn't seemed so modest as he shit in the middle of their Divination lecture.

She nodded, and cast a backward glance to the spongy, bobbing monstrosity hanging from his back legs like a third.

_No_, she chastised herself. _Don't think like that_. 


	11. Fenrir Greyback

a/n: This does not align with canon really very much. Also it's very strange, but that should be expected at this point.  
Pairing: Fenrir/dark!Harry  
Warnings: violence, weirdness, sex.

* * *

Supposing the scene should be set, Harry would describe her night like this: the Shrieking Shack threaded through with green lights, shredded clothing, torn flesh and fresh blood coloring the dusty floorboards like spilled punch. It's a party, all right, a wild one. Someone has seduced Harry into this revolting trade—biting, tearing, retching. A cycle that makes her life spitefully spent. She drags herself from an overturned sofa, its cover plastic melted in places and stretched with bite marks. Next to it, a man lies on his back with his eyes on the ceiling. He's breathing raggedly, clutching at a wound on his neck, but not dead.

"You are disgusting," the man on the floor tells her.

"I know," she says quietly. _I know very well_.

"To think you would turn out like this," he says, and there's an edge of finality to it. Like he's closing the curtain on her life story. It ends with a cruel act. His words burn.

"It's not like I _wanted _it to end this way!" she hisses, and the man on the floor scoffs between shallow breaths.

"Yet here you are, doing his work."

* * *

He wore plaid flannel and he smelt like mothballs. His hair shot from his scalp like goose-wings on either side of his head–it was gray, and his whole body was gray. His belly was round, full of god knows what, his voice hungry and soft as he spoke to her.

"Welcome to the pack."

Did he mean it sardonically? Surely he wouldn't. It was his pride and joy.

Her hands crumpled into fists in her robes. They were wet with someone else's blood. She didn't know whose.

"Am I?"

"What do you mean 'are you'?"

"Welcome?"

"Of course."

* * *

There is a pecking order, she should have known, and she dedicates her first few weeks in the underground bunker to sniffing it out; the few women who live there are unscrupulous, careless and greying with premature age. She can't say much for herself because she sees a rapidly changing demeanor and the creature inside her stirs more strongly with impulse every day. It hurts to think too hard about her other life, it hurts to think much at all, and here is her new home, of wonders and horrors denied to principled mankind.

He sends her an owl–(how inappropriate it seems, but he was human once, or a wizard, and it would be unseemly to communicate otherwise). The message simply says _see me_.

"Glad you came," he says from his doorway. His bedroom, a dingy affair with an ancient mattress and box-spring directly on the dirty wood floor, has that scent of mothballs too. His shirt hangs open, his gut spilling over his trousers and thick gray hairs dusting his chest and stomach. He's unabashed, however, and walks toward her easily, gathering her with an arm around her shoulder like an ordinary human man. His breath, hot on her cheek, intimates that he might have brushed his teeth for the occasion. Who knows, he shits in a hole.

"You have to know how bad I want you," he says. "Not just as a comrade..."

"I know," she says quietly.

He seeks her mouth out with his own, harsh and prickly from his beard. Her tongue runs over his teeth. They part with a slick sound.

They fuck on his mattress. Afterward, her back hurts and she wonders if they have any medicinal potions around. If anyone still retains that shred of humanity.

There's a cupboard next to his bed. A vial of candy-colored potion sings to her. She chugs it quickly and tosses the vial on him, looking down at him while he sleeps.

She has other things to do.

* * *

The man on the floor is eventually able to stagger up and retrieve his wand. She sits on a chunk of yellow, blistered ottoman, looking out at the waning moon.

"I'm pleased that you were able to come to your senses," he says, breathily, "but there _will _be consequences to your actions."

"I know," she says.

* * *

Three guesses as to who the man on the floor is.


	12. Dolores Umbridge

Pairing: Umbridge/Harry  
Warnings: femslash, minor/adult, dubcon-ish, set during OotP

If you're thinking I've jumped the shark, I'm thinking there was never any shark to jump.

* * *

"I m-mustn't tell lies," Harry said shakily, her hands gripping the edge of Dolores Umbridge's desk. All around her, kittens were mewing and pawing at their plate faces. The smell of peppermint tea made Harry feel hazy, weak.

"Louder this time, please," said Umbridge sweetly.

Her eyes fluttered shut when she felt the feather of the quill trace her lower lips lightly. The tip of Umbridge's index finger was soon to follow. She wanted to be touched—despite _this_, despite the wretched woman sitting on her wretched pink chair as placidly as a frog on a lily-pad while Harry stood pansted and quivering, with her quim exposed to those awful, bulgy eyes.

"Go on, dear," Umbridge prompted.

"I mustn't tell lies," Harry said more forcefully this time. Her shoulders went rigid and she gasped when a stubby, ringed finger worked lazily up to her entrance. She was already glistening wet, and when the finger slipped in, she bent over the table with a sharp cry. A second joined. Harry's legs felt like jelly. She braced her elbows against the desk, and pushed against Umbridge's unmoving fingers, looking back with a desperate grimace. Umbridge smiled.

"What mustn't you do?" she said.

"I mustn't tell lies," Harry ground out. Umbridge's other hand grazed her buttock, down, further still until she felt a finger poking at her clit.

"Do you think you've learned your lesson?"

"Yes—I'd think so," Harry said a little more brusquely than she meant. It was just starting to get good.

"Very well," she said, withdrawing her hands. "You're dismissed."

"Wha—" Harry stared incredulously at Umbridge as she began to wipe her hands on a pink-laced handkerchief.


End file.
